


Surfacing

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Drown Malcolm Reed Month, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-19
Updated: 2007-12-18
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8090113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Malcolm struggles to reach the surface.





	1. Surfacing

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Warnings: Angst. Swears.  
  
Spoilers: For â€œBreaking the Iceâ€ and potentially for â€œMinefieldâ€  
  
Note: Set early in season one. Written for November, which is â€œDrown Malcolmâ€ month!  


* * *

x-x

His body shook and, unable to stop himself, he gasped, briny water filling his mouth and nose. His throat closed and he choked and coughed, but that just made him breathe the liquid in again, and losing his grip, his head hit something hard; the ceiling.

Water, lit from the lights above, blue, yellow, and grey, seen through panicked eyes that were darting everywhere, looking for escape. But there was nothing - he was trapped. And cold, he was so damn cold. And it hurt, his chest and his throat.

He should have told...

He struggled, arms thrashing against the walls, the hinge of the door cutting his hand as he moved.

...told Tucker that he was afraid of the bloody water.

x-x

Shocked upright and awake, heart pounding in his chest, Malcolm clenched sweat soaked sheets in tight fists as his gaze flew around the room, lighting on desk, on computer, on books. He was shaking; whether from the dream or cool air on damp skin, he wasn't certain.

He huffed out a breath, a word audible in the quiet of his quarters: "Again." Splaying his fingers, he let the covers drop into a pool on his lap, exposing his bare chest to the chill of the dim room. Okay. All right. He was fine. Or he would be. He exhaled slowly, forcing tight muscles to relax. Fine. He ran his palms over the sheet on his lap, anchoring himself with the sensation, smooth fabric against skin.

He'd been having this same dream for the last several weeks, ever since he and Travis Mayweather had come back from their mining trip to that comet. He'd almost suspect that their near-death on the comet had caused the dreams, but that the subject matter was all off. It made no sense for the two to be connected. On the comet, they'd almost died, trapped in a chasm as the temperature rose dangerously around them. In the dream - nightmare, really - he'd... there had been water. He could remember the water filling the small chamber and rising over his head. His panic, and then, then... Details already fading, he put fists to his eyes, trying to force the last of it away, or to keep it there. The dream seemed to actually be building in intensity and frequency, until now, it was coming almost every bloody night, vividly enough to disturb his sleep, but the details: when he'd try to recall the exact details later, they were lost to him. All he could remember was the water, and the fear.

He sent a glace to the clock on his nightstand. Too late to sleep, too early to work, and with the dream still just there under the surface, he did the only thing for it, and what he'd been doing for the past weeks. Pushing the sheets away in frustration, he stood and dressed hastily, and took off at a sprint for the gym.

He found the gym deserted and dark, and rested a moment with his back against the door before reaching out to trigger the lights. Despite the hour, the room had obviously recently been used, a towel tossed on the floor giving the room a lived-in feel.

Pushing away from the door, he went for the treadmills. He took the first one he came to and started running, falling into a pace built of long habit. He wished he could actually run outdoors, full out. He missed it. He'd started running while he'd been at university, and he'd run the streets of London, or sometimes to Regent's Park, letting the smells of the city - food stalls, vehicle exhaust and what have you - drive him into the relative peace of the park. He'd kept up the practice when he'd reached San Francisco, although there, he'd mainly kept to Golden Gate Park.

His footfalls echoed in the small room, gray, blank walls shooting the sound back toward him. Somehow doing a real run, to some distance, wasn't the same experience on a machine as it was on the ground. But on a small starship, distance running other than on a treadmill simply was not possible. Still, the running, if not in the most ideal circumstances, did help. His endurance was improving, as with more dreams came less sleep and thus, more running.

He focused on the pound of his feet on the surface below him, the hum of the engine of the machine, and below all that, the deep rumble of the engine of the ship. It took a while for his mind to quiet, but once it did, he lost himself in the pace and the movement. As perspiration wet his hair, streaked his face, and made his shirt stick to his back, he ran, leaving the dream far behind him.

When he'd done eight miles, he sprinted out of the gym and back to his quarters, and directly into the bathroom. He stripped hurriedly, tossing his sweaty clothing to the corner, and stepped into the shower, his body still electric from the run. Only then did he go still, water thrumming against bare skin. He could still feel an undercurrent of anxiety that was left over from the dream, but it was better now, the feelings already losing immediacy with the blessing of distance. He leaned into the spray, hot water flowing over his face and down, plastering his hair flat. He breathed in, then out slowly, and let his eyes fall shut. He was tired, both physically and mentally. Tired from lack of sleep, from his run, but more than that, tired of dreams that would not let him rest.

He sat down on the cold floor, water pouring over him. He lowered his head so it wouldn't get in his face, and let it flow.

Next thing he knew, Commander Trip Tucker's voice was ringing out over the comm. "Malcolm, you there?"

Dripping, weary, he forced himself to standing and, shutting off the shower, strode to the comm. on the wall, leaving a trail of water on the floor of his room. "Yes?" he answered, voice coming out rough. He shook a bit in the chill air, and wrapped his arms across his bare chest.

"You coming?" Tucker replied expectantly.

Malcolm reached a hand to the comm. button. "Sorry?" he said.

Tucker dropped his voice. "You're late for your shift."

Malcolm blinked, fully awake now. "Shite," he said softly. Then, louder, "There in a minute."

x-x

Malcolm strode onto the bridge, figuring that if one must be late, one should at least arrive with a bit of aplomb. Although he was sure that the state of his hair, if nothing else, was telling the full story; still wet, it was probably sticking straight up for lack of gel. He'd just had time to run a hand through it after he'd dried himself and tossed on his uniform.

He greeted Ensign Hoshi Sato as he passed, not quite meeting her eye as he did so, and slid behind his station, nodding his thanks to the crewman he was replacing. In the end, he wasn't very late - fifteen minutes at most, but this was his first time late for shift, and he did not like this feeling. Not at all.

Busying himself with the report the crewman had left him, he didn't notice Tucker behind him until the man leaned down and, sotto voce, said, "Glad it was my turn for bridge duty."

Malcolm started in shock and, in the haste of his reaction, knocked one of the knobs on his console awry. He righted it with a quick hand, but not before the thing bleeped and called attention to itself.

Tucker, obviously surprised at Malcolm's reaction, frowned and leaned in closer. "You okay?"

"Yes," Malcolm said, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks. "Sorry." He winced. "Flustered."

"Understandable," Tucker replied, an amused glint sparking in his eye.

As Tucker moved off, Malcolm turned his attention back to his duties. The commander might enjoy winding him up, but he actually was glad that it was Tucker on duty today. It was not quite the same level of humiliation as if Archer or T'Pol had been on deck. That would be all he'd need; just four months into the bloody mission and...

Malcolm came back to the present to find Sato staring at him, a bemused expression on her face. Or, rather, he'd obviously been staring at her, so lost in his own thoughts that he'd not realised it, and she'd caught him out. She raised a delicate eyebrow and turned away.

He shook his head, hoping the motion would help him regain some focus. He was tired, but he'd been tired before. He simply needed to get through this shift. Maybe get some sleep. Or not, if the nightmares interrupted again. But at least get some rest, or some caffeine or something of that sort. Something to help keep him focused. Then he could stop thinking about the water rising above his head, trembling fingers reaching toward the ceiling to anchor...

"Malcolm."

...himself there as the water rose, and God, it had been cold. Water, lit from the lights in the ceiling above, blue, yellow, and grey. Cold, he was so damn cold. It hurt his chest and his throat -

"Malcolm!"

Malcolm blinked rapidly. The eyes of everyone on the bridge were on him: Sato, and Mayweather, and, and... Heart racing, he saw Tucker standing several feet in front of him, and realised that the man must have said something, and he must have missed it, and - wait - where the hell was he? He wasn't at his console. He was, he... Back pressed to the wall behind him, he was standing clear across the bridge, and he'd no idea - no bloody idea at all how he'd got there.

Tucker was staring at him, fright half-buried beneath a veneer of calm. "Malcolm?"

"What's going on?" he asked in reply. His throat hurt as if he'd been shouting.

Tucker visibly sagged, and he took a slow step forward. "Malcolm, you're relieved," he said, concern and command warring in his tone. "Hoshi, if you could..." he tapped his ear and she nodded, worried eyes turning away as she made to call in what Malcolm assumed was his replacement. When he realised that she was actually calling Doctor Phlox, his sense of panic rose. Despite himself, he took a step away from Tucker, hoping for... what? That he could escape? From what? To where?

Tucker raised his hands, both palms open, but didn't approach. "Malcolm, it'll be all right."

"What will?" he asked. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he pressed splayed fingers to the surface behind him. "I don't know what's going on."

"You don't..." Tucker let his voice trail away, and he exhaled audibly. Quieter, he added, "We kind of lost you there for a minute."

"Oh," was all he could think to say in reply. He could already feel the adrenaline beginning to flow from him, the alarm dissipating. He ran a hand across his face and let his gaze flit across the bridge, feeling completely exposed. He must have fallen asleep. And dreamt. And acted out. Shouted. His eyes met Sato's, then those of the other crewmen. They must think he'd gone mad, or worse. And perhaps he had.

Phlox entered the bridge, followed by two medics. They stopped just inside the door, and the doctor cast him an appraising look before approaching slowly, leaving his assistants where they stood.

"Lieutenant," the doctor said, his customary grin absent.

"I don't know what's wrong," Malcolm replied without preamble. "Or I do, but -" He tensed, digging his nails into his palms.

Phlox exchanged glances with Tucker, and Malcolm stopped himself from saying more. Oh, this wasn't good at all. He could just imagine the battery of tests he was about to be subject to. And they'd pull him off duty. All because of some nightmare that he couldn't seem to control.

"We'll just look you over in sickbay," Phlox said, his voice calm and even. "Can you walk?"

"Yes, I can walk," Malcolm spat back, immediately regretting his tone. Eyes up, back straight, he strode toward the lift, trailing medics as he entered. He could feel the eyes of his crewmates on his back, but turned toward them and stood at parade rest, keeping his own gaze focused over their heads as the doors closed. He didn't want to see what was in their eyes.

x-x


	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm sat on the bed in sickbay, legs dangling off its edge. He clasped a blanket tight around him as he sat, unable to ward off the chill that had overcome him on the bridge. He pulled it in tighter as he waited for the results of whatever tests Phlox had conducted. Questions asked, he'd half-answered. Blood and other fluids taken. Electronic readings. He knew what the doctor would find - nothing. He was tired, and no more.

He looked up at the shuffling of feet to find Tucker standing there expectantly, arms tucked behind his back. The man was clearly uncomfortable - he was nearly standing at attention, and it took quite a bit to get Tucker to do that.

"You okay?" Tucker asked.

Malcolm shrugged. "Phlox is still checking results." He leaned forward, dropping the blanket behind him and exposing the scrubs into which Phlox had had him change. He wanted to appear together, and sitting huddled in a blanket was not quite the image he wanted to impart to his superior officers. "Honestly, Commander, I'm just tired. I overslept, and -"

Tucker cut across him. "Please. You look like crap. Phlox tells me you've lost weight, and I don't even know what that was up on the bridge."

"Sorry."

At that response, Tucker groaned a long-suffering, "Right," and sank into the chair beside the bed. He peered up at Malcolm with a frank gaze. "You've got me worried."

Malcolm looked away. "Nothing to worry about."

"Have you been sleeping?"

"It's not that," Malcolm said softly, knowing that he was lying.

"Something's obviously bugging you," Tucker said, keeping his voice soft.

"Really, I'm fine," Malcolm said with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug.

"Listen, if you need to talk about -"

"It's not that!" Malcolm snapped out. At Tucker's look of surprise, he apologised. "Sorry, Sir," he said quickly. Then, softer, "Sorry. I'm just tired." Tucker's expression told him that the man thought he was, as Tucker would put it, full of shit, so Malcolm added, "I'm fine. I've been working out, probably not eating enough to compensate."

Tucker leaned forward a bit, his gaze piercing. "Malcolm, do you even remember what you did up on the bridge?"

Malcolm tensed, fingers wrapping around the edge of the bed, because no, he did not. There was a blank there, between sitting at his station and finding himself standing across the room and frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what had happened in between.

Tucker went on. "You started shouting, then took off like a bat out of hell. You were completely out of your head. Are you honestly going to try to tell me all that happened because you missed a meal or two?"

Malcolm noticed Phlox approaching from his office.

Tucker had obviously seen the doctor, too, because he stood and, in a voice so low as to not be overheard, said, "You know, if you'd just -" Cutting himself off, he gave Malcolm a resigned look and said, "You don't have to trust me with it, but at least tell Phlox." He hesitated, and as Phlox reached his side, finished with, "No way you're going back on duty until this is resolved."

A not-so-veiled threat, then. Malcolm watched Tucker and Phlox exchange looks as Tucker left the room, and Malcolm knew then that he was sunk. And more then that, the commander was likely right. He had been losing weight. Skipping meals to sleep, to make up for lack thereof at night. Extra exercise, less meals, not a good formula. All because of these bloody nightmares.

"So, Lieutenant" the doctor began. Customary smile missing, he cast a glance around the room as if to be sure that they were unobserved. "I know the medics asked you questions when you first came in."

"As did you," Malcolm said, not sure where this was leading.

"We'll put that aside for now." Phlox tilted his head to the side, giving Malcolm a look that was frankly evaluating. "Care to start again?"

Malcolm hesitated. He had wanted to be able to deal with this on his own, but obviously, he could not. He sighed, then started. "I've been having nightmares."

x-x


	3. Chapter 3

Malcolm sat on his bed, legs crossed beneath him, hand cupped in his lap. Two tiny red pills sat in his palm, and he stared down at them with resignation.

He'd told Phlox about the nightmares, and although he'd left out the subject matter, he had admitted that they'd been keeping him from sleeping. The doctor had pressed him on the weight loss, but he'd explained that he'd simply been exercising, and also missing meals to catch up on lost sleep, which, point of fact, was the truth. Phlox, of course, had offered him counselling, but he'd refused, saying that he couldn't remember the actual dreams. Which was a lie. He couldn't recall all the details, no, but he knew what they'd been about. But he just couldn't... It was bad enough admitting that things had got this out of control. He could not go into the details with someone else; bad enough he had to admit them to himself.

It was fear, pure and simple. He was afraid of drowning. Always had been. It was one thing - God, it was bad enough to have to admit this to oneself, but to actually have to discuss it with a doctor, someone whose job it was to analyze, evaluate, and pick apart - No. Just, no.

Anyway, in the end, Phlox had said that there seemed to be nothing otherwise wrong with him, and suggested a short round of medication. The doctor suspected what happened on the bridge was related to sleep deprivation, and if they could get that under control, he'd be back to normal.

Back to normal. Whatever that was.

If only he hadn't... Damn it. Everything was being blown out of all proportion. He simply needed sleep. He'd been dealing with his fear - his phobia, really. He'd been dealing with it. That is, until now. Now, he was dreaming of drowning. He couldn't remember the details - those were lost to him - but he remembered enough. Why the dreams were occurring now, when they never had done before, he had no idea. And he supposed it didn't matter.

Malcolm stared at the pills in his hand. Maybe the meds would knock him out and stop the bloody dreams. Popping the pills into his mouth, he swallowed them dry.

They did work. He slept solidly from night til morn, and woke unable to remember if he'd even had dreams, never mind what they'd been about. Propping himself up on his elbows, he rubbed a weary hand across his eyes as he checked the clock. Five hours sleep. That was the most he'd had, in one go, in some time. Still, he felt odd. Honestly, he felt a bit fuzzy, and somewhat chilled despite the blankets. He suspected the medications, but he figured it was worth it, to be able to find some rest. Rather than worry about it, he rolled onto his stomach and, shoving his arm under his pillow, fell asleep again.

x-x


	4. Chapter 4

Malcolm heard voices coming from around the corner, and he placed a quick hand on the lift controls, holding the door open. He nodded in greeting as Commander Tucker and Ensign Sato joined him in the lift.

"Lieutenant," Sato said with a smile.

"Ensign," he replied, as formally as was possible in jumper and jeans. He still felt a bit awkward, being in civilian clothing while the others were in uniform, but at the same time he didn't feel comfortable wearing the uniform until he was officially cleared for duty. And this particular outfit was one of his favourites, and it was probably amongst his warmest. He still couldn't quite shake the chill, but that was neither here nor there. Four days had passed since his incident on the bridge, and he had been sleeping far better and, thanks to the miracle of modern pharmacopoeia, without dreams.

He'd spoken with Archer - the man had visited him in sickbay, and once again since then. They'd discussed his lack of sleep and the dreams, although Malcolm had conveniently left out their subject matter. Last thing he needed was Archer, or Phlox, or whoever making the connection between the dreams and his phobia. Probably get himself sent straight to Starfleet Mental Health, then reassigned if he was lucky. Far better to play it off as nothing, something temporary, "See? Almost cured, meds are great, thanks," and see where that took him. He knew it was only a matter of time before Phlox put in the good word for him. Now he just needed to get Tucker on his side, and he'd be right as rain.

"How you doing?" Tucker added.

"Fine," Malcolm replied quickly. At a look from Sato, he smiled slightly and rephrased. "Better." Shifting the subject purposefully, he asked, "Are you both coming off duty?"

"Sure are," Tucker said.

At Sato's answering nod, Malcolm added, "I was heading to the mess." He hadn't been, but figured it was probably a good idea, for form's sake if nothing else. "Care to join me?"

Sato nodded again, but Tucker said, "Sorry, can't." He sounded genuinely regretful. "But you two go, and eat." He turned an amused, if pointed, look to Malcolm. "That's an order, by the way, so don't jerk me around on this one or I'll get Hoshi on your ass, and believe me, you don't want that."

"Hey," Sato sputtered from beside him. She stared at Tucker with a mix of fake horror and clear amusement, obviously accustomed to such teasing from him.

"The woman is tenacious," Malcolm added wryly.

"Hey!" Sato shouted, turning surprised eyes on Malcolm.

Malcolm smiled to soften his words. He didn't normally joke with Ensigns, and he didn't want her to take him the wrong way. "Sorry," he said, trying to appear contrite. "The commander is a bad influence."

The lift doors opened in front of her and, gathering herself together, she shot a haughty, "I'll say," over her shoulder as she left.

Malcolm was just about to step out after her, when Tucker stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You don't normally do that with her."

"I know," Malcolm replied, looking down at himself. "I think it's the clothes."

Tucker raised an eyebrow, then turned his gaze to look after Sato as she moved away. "Yours or hers?" he asked, a hint of faux-lasciviousness in his tone.

Malcolm let his eyes move to Sato, and for the first time, simply watched the woman move. "Good point," he said softly as he stepped out.

He heard Tucker stammer as the doors closed, cutting him off.

Malcolm finally let himself break into a smile.

x-x

Malcolm slid into the seat across from Sato, placing his plate and utensils on the small table before them. As his companion greeted a passing crewmate, he took a quick bite from his rice. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he'd taken the food and fully intended to eat some of it, as an effort toward regaining some of the weight he'd lost would certainly look good with the powers that be. And what he didn't eat would probably go unnoticed in the bustle of the busy room.

He took another quick bite of rice and, putting his fork down, watched the people around him.

"Are you cold?"

"Sorry?" he asked, turning his attention to Sato. "Did you say something, Ensign?"

"Call me Hoshi."

He nodded at her. "Malcolm," he said in response. Normally, he might not, but he supposed, off-duty, it was fine.

"Are you cold?" she repeated. And with that, she nodded down at his hands.

When he followed her gaze, he realised that he'd tucked his hands up under his jumper's sleeves, and was holding them close to his body. He shrugged it off and grabbed his fork again. "A bit."

"But you're feeling better, right?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, twirling his utensil in the rice. When she didn't reply, he looked up. Hoshi was staring at him with patent disbelief on her face. "No, truly. I am."

"You do look better." Reaching out, she picked at his sleeve. "You were getting kind of skinny, there."

In response, he purposefully took a big bite of the cake he'd been planning to save for dessert.

"Although looks like you'll be remedying that soon enough," she added, dark eyes sparkling in amusement.

He raised his eyebrows in reply. His earlier quip seemed to have broken the ice with her, as she was acting much freer with him than she had in the past. Maybe clothes did make the man, or at least the woman's reaction to the man. Well, casual clothing or his attempt at casual friendship, she certainly seemed more at ease with him than she had in the past.

"You seem to be back to normal, anyway," Hoshi said. "How long before they let you back on duty?"

"Soon, I think."

"Good," she said, but suddenly she didn't look like she meant it. She tugged nervously at her ponytail. Leaning in closer, she dropped her voice and said, "It was really frightening, up on the bridge."

"Sorry," he said, matching her tone. He put down his fork. "I didn't mean -"

"I know you didn't," she said, waving him away. "Just, well, I had no idea that lack of sleep could make you..." She let her voice trail off.

"Stark raving mad?" he finished frankly. He looked directly at her, but let the hint of a smile cross his lips.

"Yeah," she said awkwardly, suddenly seeming every bit as young as her twenty-three years.

"Apparently so, or at least according to Phlox it can." Malcolm pushed his dessert plate in her direction. He reached out and took another forkful for himself. "Temporarily, at least."

"But you're sleeping now?" she asked. She took a small piece of the cake on her fork, and slid it into her mouth.

Malcolm nodded around his own mouthful.

"So you won't..." Hoshi shook her hands next to her head, fork glinting in the bright light.

"No, I won't," Malcolm replied, mimicking her gestures.

"Good," she said firmly, giving him a genuine smile.

He couldn't help but return it.

x-x


	5. Chapter 5

...Water, lit from the lights above, blue, yellow, and grey.

He was trapped.

So damn cold.

He should have told... told...

Eyes snapping open, Malcolm's heart raced as he stared up at the dark ceiling. He'd thought he was, that the medications, or the extra sleep had... But now, a mere two days after Phlox had taken him off the stuff... He groaned and turned onto his side, pushing away sweat soaked sheets. Bleary eyes found focus on the clock, its numbers glowing faintly in the darkness. Oh-three-hundred. He could get up, like he used to do, or he could at least try to get some sleep. God knew, he was tired.

But if he slept, the dream...

But if he didn't, he'd hardly be able to function, and someone - Hoshi, or Tucker, or Phlox - might notice, and then he'd be back to square one. No. Dreams be damned. He just needed to get through tonight. He could deal with the rest of this after tomorrow was done.

Rolling onto his stomach, he pulled his covers back up.

...briny water filled his mouth and nose...

x-x

Malcolm stumbled out of bed and ran through the usual process of getting ready for the day: quick piss, quick shower, and so on, doing everything by rote, because today his mind was elsewhere. It was to be his first day back on duty since the incident on the bridge, and he was nervous. Needlessly, perhaps, but it was there, nonetheless. He shrugged into his uniform, taking it from where it had been hanging over the back of his door; ready, even if he wasn't.

Malcolm gazed at himself in his bathroom mirror. Above his crisp uniform, his face was looking a bit wan. Understandable, actually. He wasn't sure if it was because today was to be his first day back on duty, or if it was because the damned dreams had started again last night. Or maybe both - perhaps the dreams had been prompted by his anxiety at his return? He'd managed to get some sleep despite them, but he was tired, and it showed.

Still, it was nothing with which he couldn't cope. The chill he took care of by wearing an extra layer under his uniform. The tiredness he'd pass off as being from nerves, if anyone should actually ask. He did look far better than before, and he'd at least started regaining some of the weight he'd lost. Despite his lack of appetite, he'd been quite careful to make sure he was eating regularly.

But the bloody dreams... Maybe he should stop and see the doctor. Or, no. It was likely that the dreams were simply due to his anxiety over his return. They'd no doubt disappear as soon as he felt comfortable again. No need to bother Phlox.

Archer's voice came across the comm. "Lieutenant?"

Malcolm straightened and, with a last, passing glance in the mirror, went to the comm. unit by his door. "Yes, sir?"

"We've been invited to visit some folks on a planet a few hundred light years away. I know it's your first day back on the job, but, you up for a trip?"

Malcolm felt a thrill of anticipation. Up for a trip? He'd love the chance to get off this ship, set foot on actual earth. "Sir, yes, sir," he said.

"Shuttle bay, ten minutes," Archer said, clicking off.

Malcolm clenched his fist, adrenaline pushing off the last vestiges of tiredness. First day back, and a mission. Things could not be better.

x-x

Malcolm stood on the white platform, focusing on keeping his stance relaxed, but he had to shift his balance slightly as the waves caused the surface below him to move. He apologised when his arm knocked into Ensign Sa... into Hoshi beside him, but it really could not be avoided. The small platform was big enough for their shuttle and a few people to stand upon, but not by much. He, Tucker, Hoshi and Mayweather pretty much filled it. In fact, they'd had to come down in shifts - Archer and his lot had already been down and through, as had another group lead by T'Pol, and Mayweather had so far been doing the shuttling. He seemed eager to stop the back-and-forth trips and start exploring.

Malcolm squinted off into the distance. The planet was sunny, certainly. Blue skies, the occasional cloud - quite Earth-like, if one only ignored the fact that nearly the entire surface of the planet was covered by water. The place would actually be pretty, if it weren't making him so anxious.

Apparently, they were to collect here, and then, one by one, head through a lock of some sort, which would transport them to where these people actually lived, far beneath the sea.

There was a brief crackle, and then, despite the lack of anything that looked like speakers, Archer's voice seemed to fill the space around them. "Trip?"

"Captain?" Tucker glanced at those around him. "We're all here."

"Good." There was a pause, and then Archer continued. "It's an unusual experience. The lock actually fills with water before you transport."

"Excuse me?" Tucker said, exchanging a surprised look with Mayweather. Mayweather, with what Malcolm had come to think of as typical Boomer composure, simply shrugged. Hoshi, on the other hand, looked to be just on this side of panic.

"Takes just a minute, but I thought you should know." He hesitated again. "The lock fills, you're transported into a large pool, and swim up to the surface."

Hoshi piped in. "The Celadonians didn't say anything about that, Captain."

"They don't seem to think it's a big deal," Archer replied. "And I haven't really been able to get them to understand. But if anyone is particularly uncomfortable with this, they should probably wait this one out."

"But the Celadonians had said they wanted to meet each department head," Tucker said. "They'd seemed pretty insistent. Won't someone skipping out on them cause problems?"

"I'd be willing to take that risk."

Malcolm tried to keep his posture relaxed, but inside, he was far from it. He was already anxious, and he could feel a bead of sweat make its way down his back. It was bad enough, standing on this platform surrounded on all sides by ocean, but the idea of going into some chamber and having it fill with water - yes, he'd dealt with submersion before, as part of his training. But it hadn't been pleasant.

Tucker's assessing gaze moved from one to the other of them. As it rested on him, he gave a sharp nod, trying to keep his breathing calm and even. He could do this. He had to. In reality, there was no way to refuse without potentially causing an interstellar incident, and he was not going to be the one who did so. The Celadonians had expressly stated that they wanted to meet all department heads. Even Chef had been invited down. Malcolm clenched his fists, trying to rationalise away his rising panic. It would take only a second, really, and then through the magic of Celadonian tech, he'd end up in their undersea city. He simply needed to find a way to get through this.

As Tucker and Archer discussed the final details, Malcolm noticed that Hoshi still seemed quite nervous, but he was far too tense himself to be of much help. He was watching her shift uncomfortably when Mayweather moved to the edge of the platform, and only then did Malcolm become aware of a softly glowing grid pattern on the area just under Mayweather's feet. White walls appeared around him almost instantly, and then disappeared, taking Mayweather with them.

Tucker let out a low whistle and a muttered, "I'll be damned." Catching Malcolm's eye, he raised a brow. "Next?" he asked.

Hoshi stepped forward. "Actually, can I go?" She cast Malcolm a look as if in understanding, and Malcolm realised that maybe he wasn't hiding his anxiety as well as he'd thought. "I'd rather get this over with," Hoshi added softly, almost seeming apologetic. At Tucker's nod, she closed the cover to her translation device, thus making it as water tight as possible, then stood on the now-dull grid. After a few moments, it began to glow again, and like Mayweather, she was gone in a flash.

"Want to go?" Tucker asked.

Malcolm shook his head. "You can go ahead."

It was only when Tucker gave a jaunty salute, then disappeared, that Malcolm felt the brunt of his panic set in. Heart racing, he began readying his equipment for submersion, although most of it was designed to be able to be immersed in water for brief periods without any special preparation. He'd do the prep anyway. He needed the time. Trembling fingers made him clumsy, so each task took extra care, but even so, he was done in mere moments.

He stared at the grid. It was glowing, ready.

"It's your go, Reed," he muttered. Bracing himself, he stepped forward.

Walls rose, gray around him, and suddenly he was standing in a small chamber. The water started coming in immediately, pooling around his feet, then swiftly rising past his ankles, knees, waist, chest, and Malcolm tried not to breathe, not to think, not to feel as the water rushed past his chin. Unable to help himself, he tilted his face up to the bright ceiling, taking in a gasping breath just as the water closed over his head. His eyes darted around the cramped space. The chamber was full now. Chest tight, eyes wide open despite the sting and his desperate desire to shut them, he tried to keep still, but he was trembling in his cold and fear, and the salt water was making him buoyant. He thrust a hand toward the ceiling to support himself, the water slowing his movements. Already, his fingers were so cold he could barely feel the smooth surface, but he left them there, anchoring himself.

He'd known it would be bad. Small space, stand there, let the water fill it - damn, it was cold - up past his head, don't panic, the pressure would equalize, the door - it looked like a door - in front of him would open, he'd be out and being picked up by the locals in no time.

Tucker was already in and through. Tucker had already been through this. Tucker was likely fine, probably already sitting at some reception drinking bloody mai tais or the local equivalent, and if Malcolm could just get through this, he'd be there with Tucker and the others, on their way to meet Archer and damn it, what was taking them so long?

And they'd insisted, the bleedin' locals, they'd insisted that all the department heads make it down to their location, cultural exchange, didn't want to risk offense, oh-bloody-no. Even Chef had been there, part of the first group to come down.

And why not? Chef wasn't afraid of drowning. He wasn't afraid, not like, not -

His body shook and, unable to stop himself, he gasped, briny water filling his mouth and nose. His throat closed and he choked and coughed, but that just made him try to breathe the liquid in again, and losing his grip, his head hit the ceiling.

Water, lit from the lights in the ceiling above, blue, yellow, and grey. And cold, he was so damn cold. And it hurt, feck, his chest. He should have told...

His lungs burned from lack of air, and his vision tunnelled out. He was going to pass out. He couldn't. He couldn't let himself. If he did, his body's reflexes would take over, and he'd breathe, not at first, but soon enough, and if he did, and he was unconscious, water would enter his lungs. He'd drown. He'd... He should have told...

He struggled, arms thrashing against the walls, the hinge of the door cutting his hand as he moved.

...told Trip that he was afraid of the bloody water.

A thin trickle of darkness trailed from the injury, and he could hear his pulse in his ears, feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he couldn't keep himself from trying to breathe, trying to cough, and, and. And.

And.

He stilled.

And he'd thought he could get through this.

His vision blurred.

He'd been wrong.

As the world went grey around him, and then black, a fleeting thought came to mind: So this is what the dreams were on about.

x-x


	6. Chapter 6

He woke in sickbay with movement all around him, and a distinct sense of having just been elsewhere, and of something being wrong. But it was sickbay. He could tell it was sickbay, because it... because...

He tried to focus.

...because the smells, and how it sounded, and...

Voices overhead, around him, scattered, snatches of conversation.

"Malfunction, couldn't get him out."

"...before they resuscitated him."

"...O2 levels..."

He'd drowned. Someone on the planet must have got him breathing again, somehow, and... and...

"Lieutenant?"

He opened his eyes and stared up at nothing. Something was wrong; he was losing track. He'd lost track of... something, and he couldn't remember.

"Mr. Reed?"

All he remembered was pain. No, that wasn't true. He could remember the water, the panic as he had struggled. Then nothing.

Someone flashed a light.

Someone said his name.

He closed his eyes.

Time skipped, and Trip was there beside him, sitting in a chair, reading something from a padd held in one hand.

"Trip?" he tried to ask, but nothing came out.

Trip's head remained bowed over his padd.

"I drowned," he said, or thought, because all was silence. His eyes slid closed, and he knew he was going under again. "The dreams were telling me," he mumbled, feeling their tug even as he spoke.

Trip's voice came from somewhere in the distance. "Dreams?"

And then he was gone.

Hours passed, or days, and it was Hoshi beside him in the chair, her dark hair for once hanging loose and falling in front of her face as she read. Malcolm could see her lips soundlessly shaping the words, and he imagined her translating some Celadonian text, the words coming from the padd, into her thoughts, flowing out her mouth and into the water that surrounded him.

Later it was Hoshi and Trip, talking nearby. Too tired to open his eyes, he let their words speed by him, the current taking them past too quickly for him to catch more than bits and pieces. "Phlox said...", "Makes no sense..."

He broke the surface.

"He was cold before that, though. All the time." That was Hoshi, her soft voice distinct despite the water around him. "Did you notice?"

"No. But I did notice he wasn't sleeping." That was Trip, his accent stronger than normal, like it got when he was upset. "And with that incident on the bridge... Shit's gotta be related, somehow."

"But Phlox said -"

"I know what Phlox said," Trip said quickly. He dropped his voice, and a certain note of resignation entered his tone. "I know. I know that whatever's wrong with him, the reason why he's so out of it, is probably due to the oxygen deprivation or something." He almost sounded plaintive. "I know that. I know it's been weeks, and that, if he..." He exhaled, and the rest of his words came out in a rush. "What Phlox said makes sense, damn it, but I don't - I can't - "

Malcolm wasn't sure he was following. Weeks? How could that - it had been hours, maybe, or days, or... He heard soft shuffling, and the sound of cloth on cloth. Footfalls, and then Hoshi's voice, closer now.

" 'Cause that'd mean it's permanent?"

"Yeah," Trip answered, sounding lost. "And I'm not ready for that."

Hoshi hesitated a moment, and it was as if the world went silent around her, waiting. "Were you..." She stopped, then started again, stronger this time. "Were you and Malcolm...?"

After a beat, Trip said, "No. We were friends, of a sort." He gave a soft chuckle. "Or at least, I was trying. The man wasn't exactly making it easy."

And Malcolm could imagine why. They'd been on this mission for a few months, now, and all that while, Trip had been making overtures of friendship, which he'd rebuffed. In his quest for professionalism, he'd not let himself get close with anyone on the ship, never mind Trip, who ostensibly was his superior. God, it had taken his being pulled off duty, for there to have been something wrong with him before he'd even managed to call Hoshi by her first name. What chance did Trip have, against all that?

There was silence, or maybe Malcolm lost the thread of the conversation. It was just voices; Hoshi's, Trip's, call and response, serve and volley, ebb and flow. He'd be swept up on a crest, only to go down again, and all he could hear was the crashing of the waves around him, and their voices, always their voices.

He was on a crest when Trip murmured, "If this is somehow connected to what was going on with him earlier, then maybe it can be fixed."

"Phlox'll think we're nuts."

Footsteps, and Trip's voice came again, closer this time. He must be standing beside Hoshi. "No he won't."

Malcolm lost track for a while after that. It was hard to stay focused on the things in sickbay - the water kept tugging him down, and each time, he found it a bit more difficult to find the surface again. But there was something about hearing his friends nearby. It helped.

x-x


	7. Chapter 7

"I'm feeling the need for a diagram or a flowchart or something," Trip said from somewhere.

Malcolm was confused, not sure if they were still there, or there again.

"Excuse me?" Hoshi replied from right beside his bed.

"I mean, neither of us are doctors," Trip said, his voice coming closer with each word. He stopped when he reached Hoshi's side. "We're getting nowhere with this from this angle. But I'm an engineer, and - you ever done any programming?" There was a pause, then he continued, "Maybe we should treat this like a bug in a computer program; you know, trace it backwards. Assume that there is a cause, that something happened way before the drowning."

"So..." Hoshi added, drawing out the word. "Pretend all this is related, and see where it takes us?"

"Yeah. We could start with today, and chart out everything that happened to the man, going backwards until we run out of connections. Think Phlox'd mind if we set up shop?"

"We're here all the time anyway," Hoshi said. "I don't think Phlox'd mind. He'd probably want to join in. Make it a threesome."

There was silence for a beat. Then Hoshi said, seeming a bit chagrined, "That's not quite what I meant."

Trip laughed.

Malcolm heard the sound of a smack, and Hoshi said, "You are such an asshole."

Malcolm drifted on the currents for a while after that, only coming back up when Trip's voice came from next to his ear. "So, drowning... let's take that out of the equation. Pretend it's unrelated to his condition now."

A brief thought flitted across Malcolm's consciousness: But the dreams...

He felt something nudge his arm, and realised that Trip must be using his bed as a prop for something, or maybe as a desk.

"Okay," Hoshi said. She was also quite close to him, probably sitting in a chair just beside Trip.

"So he'd had nightmares, freaked out on the bridge, saw Phlox..."

"Who gave him sleeping pills."

"Right," said Trip. "And the meds got the dreams under control."

"Or so Malcolm said," Hoshi added, doubt clear from her tone.

"Well he did look better, so they did something," Trip said. "At least let's assume he was sleeping better."

"So the meds worked in part. But you know Malcolm," Hoshi said wryly. "If they'd worked even kind of, he'd be good with that. Or if they worked for a while, and then stopped working, he wouldn't necessarily go to Phlox right away."

"Probably not," said Trip.

Malcolm felt something being shifted from the bed, and realised that Trip had probably picked something up.

"You'd said he was cold?" Trip asked, sounding like he was reading as he spoke.

"Even after the meds," said Hoshi. "And he was eating, but it wasn't like he was eating a lot. So let's assume he wasn't particularly hungry."

"Right," said Trip, and Malcolm could hear him entering something into a padd. "Cold, nightmares, lack of appetite. And all of this started... Let me..." There was silence. After a few moments, Trip added, "So, somewhere between June, when he obviously fine, and maybe end of August, when he obviously was not, something happened."

"Like what?" Hoshi asked. "Hey, do you have the monthly reports -?"

"Hold on," Trip broke in. There was the tap of a finger on a padd screen. "Malcolm and Travis went on a mining mission. That comet, remember?"

"Anything else?"

"Not in that time period, no," Trip answered. "That was pretty much -"

He cut himself off when Hoshi whispered, "Trip, his eyes are open."

Things were shifted aside, and Malcolm sensed Trip and Hoshi standing beside his bed. Something moved across his field of vision, but he couldn't quite track it.

"He did this once before, on one of my visits," Trip said, his voice low.

"But he's not...?"

"I don't think he's actually awake, no," Trip said solemnly.

"So he can't hear us?"

"I don't know," Trip answered, seeming unsure. "Phlox said he might. I suppose it's possible."

"Hey, Malcolm," Hoshi said softly. He felt her hand touch his arm briefly, a flutter of sensation and heat against bare skin.

"We're trying," Trip said gruffly.

There was silence for a while, disturbed only by a soft sniff. Eventually, Malcolm felt them move away, and heard them settle back into their seats again.

"The mining trip... What were they mining again?" Hoshi asked after a moment, her voice sounding forced.

Trip cleared his throat. "Eisilium," he said. "The Vulcans hadn't had enough to study in detail before, and we were kind of in the neighbourhood. It's rare, not something we have on Earth." He paused for a beat. "Do you suppose...? Nah, I mean..."

"What do we know about that stuff?" Hoshi asked.

In the silence, Malcolm could hear Trip working the padd, soft clicks coming in rapid succession. Finally, he said, "Not a hell of a lot."

Neither of them spoke until Hoshi said, "There was no exposure," not sounding particularly sure of what she was saying. "They were wearing environmental suits, and the samples were sealed. It's not like they actually handled the mineral."

"There could have been some on the surface of the container," Trip said. Hoshi must have given him a look of disbelief, because he added an awkward, "Or something."

"But they went through Decon, right?"

"Decon works on organics," Trip said. "And if there were small amounts of something on the container that we weren't familiar with, it wouldn't necessarily show up on scanners." He paused. "But wouldn't others be sick? At least Travis, who mined with him?"

"Not necessarily," Hoshi said. "Not if he - Just a sec,"

Malcolm heard footsteps moving away, then the click of the comm. being activated.

"Hey, Travis?" Hoshi asked.

"Yup," Travis answered, his voice only slightly distorted by the comm.

"After the mining mission to that comet, who handled the sample once you brought it back on board?"

Travis was silent for a moment. "No one, really. It was in a sealed sample tube. Malcolm brought it from the shuttle, then it was transported to the Vulcan ship, and that was it. We never even opened it."

"Thanks," said Hoshi. She spoke as she walked, her voice swiftly coming closer. "I think Malcolm was the only one who handled it." She hesitated. "I think... What if he's the only human who's ever come close to the stuff? What if...?" she let her voice drift away, and they stayed in silence for a while.

"No shit," Trip finally said, sounding surprised.

"Shit," Hoshi answered in the same tone.

"Better tell Phlox," Trip added. "It might be nothing, but..."

"Yeah," Hoshi replied.

Chairs were pushed back, and Hoshi huffed out a groaned, "I need chocolate." Footsteps moved away, then stopped. "If it was the Eisilium, do you think Phlox could...?"

"I don't know," Trip admitted. "But I think if anyone could, it'd be Phlox."

x-x

The rest wasn't exactly clear. Phlox was there. Then maybe he missed something, because he was inside a machine that enclosed him, head to toe, and there were lights and loud noises. Then Trip, voice an angry rumble, and Hoshi sounding upset, and later, feeling both his inner arms pierced by old fashioned needles, and something nearby clicking, and it took forever, but none of that made any sense.

x-x

The next time Malcolm opened his eyes, Trip and Hoshi were there. And not just there, beside him, as they'd been recently - working, talking, but all of that just out of focus - but truly there. Or maybe it was he who was, for the first time in a long while, truly there.

But this time, when Hoshi said, "Hey, Malcolm," he turned his head toward her and replied with a hoarse, "Hello." And when Trip broke into a wide smile, he couldn't help but respond with one of his own.

x-x


	8. Chapter 8

x-x

Malcolm stood before the mirror in his quarters, adjusting his uniform. He had some time before his shift started, but wanted to make some extra effort toward his appearance. He'd lost weight during his time in sickbay, and nothing he had to wear seemed to fit any longer, but he'd done the best he could with what he had, knowing that his superiors would have to forgive him if he looked a bit sloppy. Fingers fumbling the pip he was trying to fasten to his collar, he dropped it onto the floor when his door chime went.

Sighing dramatically, he picked it up, then walked to the door.

It opened to reveal Trip there, in uniform, with Hoshi standing directly behind him. The man looked Malcolm up and down, and raised an assessing brow. "Nervous?"

"Commander," Hoshi said sharply, shoving Trip in the upper arm. She gave Malcolm an apologetic look.

"Yes, well..." Malcolm waived the two of them in, and returned to the mirror. "It is my first day back, and last time I had a 'first day back', things didn't go quite as well as I'd hoped." His fingers trembled a bit as he tried to fasten the pip, but he finally got the tiny thing on.

"But this time, things are different," Trip said from somewhere behind him.

"Indeed," Malcolm replied, raking quick fingers through his hair. This time, Phlox was limiting him to short shifts for the first few days. But that was immaterial. More importantly, this time, there were no dreams, and he was well on his way to recovery. Amazing that it was his exposure to the Eisilium that apparently had caused all this: the dreams, his sickness, everything. In fact, Phlox had said that the substance had actually heightened his fears, both causing the dreams and making his reactions to them far stronger than they might have been if he'd been well. And once he'd actually been exposed to a situation that would have triggered fear even in a person who wasn't aquaphobic, his body had been pushed over the edge of... something, and, between that and the escalation of the illness itself... Malcolm blinked hard, trying to cease the flow of those memories.

He turned to see that Trip sitting in his desk chair, feet propped on his bedrail, while Hoshi had settled on the bed itself. He approached them and sat in the only seat left available in the room, beside Hoshi on top of his blankets.

"I wanted to thank you," Malcolm said, feeling a bit awkward. He wasn't used to speaking to people like this, but he felt that he must.

"No problem," Hoshi said softly.

At the exact same time, Trip asked, "For what?"

"I know you were there, and that you..." Malcolm rubbed the bridge of his nose absently. He'd pieced together most of the story, between what he'd been told afterwards and what he could actually recall, but there were holes there, big ones, gaps in his memory, and things that he did remember that seemed off, somehow. "Actually, I'm not sure I remember everything."

Hoshi nodded. "You were kind of..." She shrugged.

Trip added, "More than 'kind of.'" He shrugged, mimicking Hoshi's gesture with a smile.

Malcolm winced. "I suppose so, yes. But if not for you, I -" He stopped himself from saying more, unsure of how exactly to phrase it.

He'd have been lost. His friends, knowing him as they did, had found the trail, and it was only that he'd opened himself up to them, that allowed them to do it. And Hoshi, especially. If he hadn't had those dreams, if he hadn't been off duty, he wouldn't have opened himself up to Hoshi, and - and God, Trip -

Trip punched him gently on the knee, breaking into his thoughts. With an odd smile, Trip said, "And Phlox wouldn't have got to try that old Earth medicine."

"Sorry?" Malcolm asked, the word slipping out before he could stop it, because in reality, he was not sure he actually wanted to know.

"You should have seen him," Trip said, dropping his feet to the floor and leaning forward across his knees. "The man was in his glory, actual metal needles in each hand, some sort of blood processing machine rigged up, and you with tubes going out one arm, in the other."

Hoshi looked a bit uncomfortable. "Well, that was after he'd already tried that scanner thing."

"Which didn't work," Trip said.

Hoshi nodded. "And you yelled at him."

"Yeah," Trip said, seeming pensive. "Maybe I owe him an apology."

"That might be nice," Hoshi said, without a hint of sarcasm.

Trip gave her an awkward grin.

"Are you two quite done?" Malcolm asked, feeling as if he was watching a tennis match.

"Yes?" Trip said, obviously unsure of where Malcolm was going with this.

"Because I feel as if I'm watching a scene from..." Malcolm paused. "You know, that film you'd shown the other night. What was it called?"

Both stared at him, puzzled.

"Godzilla?" Trip asked hesitantly.

Malcolm shook his head. "You know, the one set in New York, with the two people, and 'I'll have what she's having'," he said, quoting the line.

"When Harry Met Sally?" Hoshi asked, raising her brows in surprise.

"Right, right," Malcolm said.

"That was two months ago," Trip said with a frown.

"Oh," Malcolm replied. He felt at a loss, like his feet had gone out from under him, and he shifted uncomfortably. "I suppose I've missed a few."

"Tonight's another," Hoshi volunteered from beside him, her voice pitched in such a way that it was obvious that she was trying to keep it light. Her eyes, though, they told a different story. "It's 'Dreams are Toys'. And speaking of which..." She stood and, first giving a significant look to Trip, she glanced down at her watch. "I'm supposed to help set up." She looked from one to the other of them. "You guys going? It starts in a half hour."

"Dreams?" Malcolm asked. "I'm not sure." Although he had enough time before his shift to see at least the start of the thing, he'd quite enough of dreams.

"I'll meet you there," Trip said.

Hoshi left with a wave and another pointed gaze, leaving just Trip and him.

Malcolm knew that something was coming, and sure enough, as soon as the door shut, Trip said, "What exactly do you remember, from when you were sick?"

"After I'd drowned, or before?" Malcolm said, trying, and failing, to make a joke of it.

Trip simply said, "After."

"Oh," Malcolm said, exhaling the word in a huff. He looked out at the room. "Not much, actually. I know I was in sickbay." He met Trip's gaze. "I know you were there. And Hoshi. But other than that?" He shrugged, because it was true. He remembered pain, and water, and voices - Trip's voice, and Hoshi's. But other than that?

"You'd said something about dreams, while you were sick."

Malcolm crossed his arms and stared at his friend. "Did the two of you plan this?" He wasn't exactly accusing; he simply wanted to know.

"What?" Trip looked genuinely surprised. "We did talk about it, yes, but this isn't a plot or anything. We just want to make sure that you're really okay." He grinned as if to soften his next words, but the smile was without humour. "You kind of have a habit of saying that you're fine, and meanwhile, you've got a pillow on your lap hiding the fact that your leg's been chopped off and you're actually bleeding to death. Know what I mean?"

Malcolm huffed a mirthless laugh. "Right, sorry. I'm not used to -" He cut himself off, leaving the rest unsaid: that he was normally such a professional bastard, he avoided making friends at work. That because he was Starfleet, his entire world was now work, and that meant -

"Malcolm?" Trip said, breaking into his reverie.

Malcolm looked up.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," Malcolm said automatically. Then, realising what he'd just done, he slowly raised one brow.

Trip twisted his lip in a wry smile, and leaned into the space between them. "You'd said the dreams were trying to warn you."

"I don't remember saying that," Malcolm said, biting his lip in thought.

"It was when you were... Well, you were kind of out of it."

Malcolm gave a half smile at that. "Out of it" was certainly a good way of describing how he'd been.

"So, what were you dreaming of?" Trip asked, expression gone completely serious.

Malcolm felt his smile fall away, and he broke eye contact. Honestly, he'd been trying not to think about all that. The dreams had gone; he'd not had one since. Phlox had said they were part of his illness, and he'd tried to believe that. But for the subject matter, perhaps he could have. He took a breath, and on the exhale, said, "Drowning."

"You're kidding, right?"

Malcolm shook his head and met Trip's gaze again. "No"  
Trip gave him a look that made him deeply uneasy, and, pressing his hands into the bed, he curled his fingers into the duvet beneath him, anchoring himself there.

"You sure you didn't dream all that later, after you drowned?" Trip asked.

"I'm quite sure," Malcolm answered, voice quiet but firm. This time, he forced himself to maintain eye contact. "I've always... I have a phobia. Of drowning. Of water." He shook his head. "The dreams were from that," he said firmly, perhaps trying to convince himself as well as Trip. "The illness amplified feelings I'd always had."

"So you've always..."

"Yes," Malcolm said. Too restless to sit any longer, he pushed himself up and began pacing. He could feel Trip's eyes on him as he moved. "I've always had that fear, but I've also always been able to handle it." He glanced at Trip. "Well enough, anyway. There were a few situations where I'd had to - where I was forced to be in situations, but I was usually able to avoid them." He stopped and turned to face Trip. "I'd reckoned that, on a deep space mission, at least..." He smiled wryly. "At least there I'd be safe."

"But you weren't," Trip said softly.

"Apparently not. No. But in my past experiences, when I had to face such situations, I did so. I'd simply get through it, because I had to. But this time, I couldn't."

"You could have told me," Trip said, looking up at Malcolm from where he sat on the chair. His posture, his expression, his tone, everything about the man showed pain and hurt. "When we were on the planet, you could have told me. I might have been able to -"

"What, Trip?" Malcolm said, his tone a bit harsher than he'd intended. "Protect me? I don't need -"

Trip stood slowly and met his gaze, eye to eye. "No, you don't. But I might have been able to help you. As a friend."

That stopped him. He stood there a moment, staring at the man in front of him.

Trip was right. Ah, bloody hell. He was complete crap at this friendship thing. The man was right.

"You're right," Malcolm said simply, in echo to his thoughts. He sank down onto his bed and, sliding back on it, slouched against the wall.

Trip stood over him a moment. His brow creased into a slight frown. "Since when do you call me 'Trip'?"

Malcolm straightened in shock. If he'd overstepped -

Trip obviously saw his anxiety. "No, no. I've been trying to get you to..." Trip sat beside him, taking the space vacated by Hoshi. He quirked his lip in a smile. "It's good."

Malcolm let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

"Ever had dreams like that before?" Trip asked.

Malcolm cocked his head and glanced sideways at the man. "What do you mean?"

Trip gave him a strange look. "You know, where what you dreamed, later came true?"

"No," Malcolm said, thinking about that for a moment. "Do you think this is what these dreams were doing?" The logical thing was no, these dreams were simply borne of his illness and fear. But in reality...

Trip stared out at the room. "I had an aunt, had dreams like that."

"So you believe in that sort of thing?"

Trip smiled vaguely. "I'm not sure, no. But I don't deny it, either. Stranger things have happened, even on Earth, and out here?" He turned to face Malcolm. "Who knows what we'll encounter."

"True."

"And maybe something - the mineral, or the illness it caused - opened your eyes, if you catch my drift." Trip gave him an odd smile. "Who the hell knows? But if stuff like that starts happening again - weird stuff, you know - tell me about it. Don't keep it to yourself." Trip dropped his grin. "And yes, I might tease you some, but I will listen."

Malcolm realised that the man was right. If he'd told someone about those dreams, and how he hadn't been sleeping... If he'd told someone, maybe Trip, of his phobia... He had drowned in that water, and almost in himself, and it had taken his friends - friends that he'd only opened himself up to due to his illness - to pull him from the depths and into the light.

They'd saved him.

"Got it?" Trip asked.

Malcolm nodded, at a loss for words.

"Good. Now, enough of that touchy feely shit," Trip said. He reached over Malcolm's head and snagged the controller for the monitor, flicking it on. The screen on the desk came to life. "Football," Trip said firmly, staring at the screen as he scrolled through the menus. He waved the remote in the general direction of Malcolm's refrigerator. "Beer."

"Trip, I'm on duty in less than an hour," Malcolm said with an awkward frown.

Trip raised one brow, ala T'Pol. "I didn't mean for you." Then he smiled.

And with that, Malcolm knew that this was truly the start of a beautiful friendship.

x-x


End file.
